


Cat and Mouse Game

by Ironkhaleesi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut?, F/M, Moriarty - Freeform, Sherlock - Freeform, moriarty fan fic, moriarty fan fiction, moriarty one shot, sherlock fan fic, sherlock fan fiction, sherlock one shot, smut mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 04:27:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6500791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironkhaleesi/pseuds/Ironkhaleesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You and Sherlock are best friends, have been for a while, and he's begun developing feelings for you. Unfortunately, you're in a semi-secret relationship with Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You collapsed back on the bed next to Moriarty, your naked chests heaving as you both tried to catch your breath. You swallowed thickly and breathed out a laugh as you lifted an arm and let your hand fall against his chest.

“You were right,” you panted. “It never gets boring with you.”

You couldn’t see, but having been with Moriarty, and even Sherlock, for so long, you knew that right now he’d have a smug smile spread across his face. They denied it often enough – well … Sherlock denied it – but the two of them were similar in so many ways. It often made you think about the little things that occur in life that force you down certain paths. Like, if maybe Moriarty had grown up with Sherlock’s parents, and Sherlock had grown up with Moriarty’s – or lack thereof – they’d have taken each other’s path in life instead of their own. At least, that’s what you tell yourself to assuage the guilt of dating a man like Moriatry. Well, you called it dating, you really weren’t sure what he called it. Moriarty wasn’t an ordinary man, so your relationship with him wasn’t ordinary, nor did you do ordinary couple things together.

He rolled his head on the pillow to study your face. That was another thing he and Sherlock had in common, they either glanced over people like they meant nothing more than the dirt on their boots, or they studied them closely. They never could just look at anyone. “Darling, if I ever become boring, shoot me,” he said, his rich and soft Irish crescendo bouncing off the walls.

“I’ll hold you to that,” you said as you looked back at him. You didn’t smile when you said it. Didn’t even make a joke of it. You felt guilty about being with him for a reason. He was a bad man, and you killed bad men for a living. But despite the seemingly exciting aspects of your life, you got bored easily. That’s why you’d teamed up with Sherlock. It was never boring with Sherlock, but even he became predictable at times, and you found yourself falling back into the old reckless behaviours just to assuage your boredom. Then you met Moriarty. He was a bad man, a bad man that you were supposed to kill, but he was also incredibly not boring. So, you never took your shot. But you told yourself, and him, time and again that the moment he became boring was the moment that his life became forfeit.

His eyes flicked over your face, his smile was still there but it fell out of his eyes as he tried to read something in your expression. Whatever he found must have pleased him because his smile grew into a grin and his eyes lit up again as he rolled to his side towards you.

“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I like you so much.” His smile went away suddenly and his face hardened, normally that would have frightened you, knowing what Moriarty was capable of, but you’d learnt that his hard face wasn’t an angry face, it was just a blank cop face. If he was angry he would have just exploded at you, which, thankfully, he had never gotten angry at you before. You figured that you mustn’t have been boring either. He confirmed your suspicions by sitting up and saying, “You’re not boring like everyone else.”

He threw his legs over the side of the bed and reached down to begin tugging his suit pants back on. You thought about reaching out and rubbing a hand across the span of his strong back, you even rolled to your side and lifted a hand to do it, but he wouldn’t allow it. The moment was over, and he was getting ready to leave, affection wasn’t his thing and if you tried to be affectionate with him he would just get angry. You would become boring. Predictable. And you were certain that the moment that happened your life would be forfeit just as his would have been if the tables were turned.

It shocked you, actually, the need to be affectionate with Moriarty. You weren’t a touchy feely person either, but there was something about him that made you want to touch him like that. To stroke a hand over his back while he got dressed, have him pull you in against his body suddenly, not because he wanted to have sex with you, but because he wanted to hold you. It would never happen though, and you’d accepted that fact, so you rolled back and watched as he finished dressing and left your apartment, mumbling a goodbye without even sparing a glance for you.

****

You barged through the door of Sherlock and John’s apartment, paper bags filled with groceries weighing down your arms. You weren’t sure that Sherlock even noticed your presence from the couch, so you ignored him and smiled at John.

“Hi. I picked up some groceries for you guys. Figured Sherlock hadn’t done it.”

John scoffed, “I’m certain Sherlock has never shopped for groceries in his life.”

“That’s completely illogical, John, I would have starved,” Sherlock sighed as he lifted his arm from his eyes and sat up. He looked at you and you could tell just from the way his eyes flicked over you that he was deducing or observing or whatever the hell it was that he did to piss everyone off.

“You’ve been out with that man again,” he said matter-of-factly as he stood and strode over to you with as much an air of arrogance as Moriarty would have. “Tell me, what’s his name?”

You rolled your eyes and headed over to the table in the kitchen to begin putting away the groceries. “You and I both know that you’ve already worked out who it is, Sherlock, you just don’t want to admit it to yourself.”

“I don’t know who it is,” John said.

“And you never will,” you replied, making him grumble under his breath.

“Why would I pretend not to know who it is, if I know who it is?” Sherlock said in irritation. You had to mull over the sentence for a little longer than usual to actually make sense of what he had said.

You shook your head and looked at John. “I heard Mrs Hudson calling you, John,” you told him.

He did that thing where he frowned and smiled at the same time, the expression that said ‘what you just did is ridiculous’, or, in this case, ‘you can’t pull the wool over my eyes’. “No you didn’t. You’re just trying to get me out of the room.”

“Ugh, then why don’t you leave already?” Sherlock said in a rather rude manner.

John looked to you for support but when he didn’t get any he scoffed and headed for the door. “You know,” he called over his shoulder, “I think the two of you forget that I was a soldier. I’ve killed people.”

In unison you and Sherlock rolled your eyes and shouted, “You were a doctor!”

“I had bad days!” John shouted back.

Sherlock turned to you expectantly once his friend left the room and you said, “We both know you saw Moriarty’s jacket at my home the last time you were there.”

The so called ‘master-of-crime’ had said it was an accident, but you were still a hundred percent sure that he had left it at your house on purpose, knowing that Sherlock was going to be there later in the day. How he knew that you still weren’t sure, but he must have. Moriarty didn’t just forget his suit jacket at his girlfriends house. He was ridiculously meticulous about everything, there was a reason behind everything he did. Hell, you were sure that he even had an ulterior motive for dating you, but as long as you remembered that you kept telling yourself that you could tread this dangerous line.

“So you admit it then? You’re sleeping with Moriarty.”

“It’s hardly an admission when we both knew but never talked about it.”

Sherlock grunted and muttered, “Semantics.” You opened your mouth to respond with something snarky but he quickly cut you off saying, “Why him? You often say, and whilst I wholeheartedly disagree, that he and I are a very much alike. I am one hundred percent positive that the thought to date you would never have occurred to Moriarty, which leads me to believe that you initiated a romantic relationship with him, which again leads me back to the question: Why him? Why not me? I am not a criminal. Well, not in the sense that matters to the police anyway. And the likelihood of me killing you out of boredom is significantly lower than the likelihood that Moriarty will.”

The question shocked you so much that for a second you just stood there and stupidly stared at him. Then you finally blurted out, “Is that what you want? Do you want me to choose you?”

“Why are you deflecting by answering with a question?”

“Why are you?”

The two of you came to a standstill. And as though you were both in some sort of old western showdown you just stood there staring at each other, bodies rippling with tension. You thought about his question, seriously thought about. Why had you chosen Moriarty? Well, that was an easy question, one that he’d answered a thousand times with his lips against your neck and his hand between your legs. Not to mention the spontaneous visits that sent adrenaline coursing through your veins, because you knew that you would be in big trouble if the wrong people caught the two of you talking together. But why had you chosen him and not Sherlock? That was a tough one to answer. You’d said it yourself, they were almost exactly alike. Sure, there wouldn’t be the sense of danger and taboo that you got being with the world’s greatest criminal mastermind. But you could live with that, and sometimes it got tiring trying to keep the secret and cover your tracks. And you’d fantasised about Sherlock often enough that there was no way you wouldn’t enjoy having his hand between your legs. So why not choose Sherlock over Moriarty? The answer was that you didn’t have an answer. And you had a brief moment to realise that that was the perfect metaphor for your life before a flash of Sherlock’s skin distracted you.

He’d tugged at the lapels of his dressing gown. You’d thought that he’d done it to pull them closer together, but if he had then he’d failed. They gapped further apart and you realised that he didn’t have a shirt underneath. Physically, he and Moriarty were very different, but their skin was a similar shade, and as you stared at the triangle of chest that Sherlock had exposed you thought back to the moment when you had wanted to run a hand over Moriarty’s back.

You weren’t sure what made you do it – perhaps you’d been denied affection for so long that you’d just suddenly gone mad with the need of it – but without warning, you reached up and pressed your hand against his chest. You didn’t look up at his face, so you had no way of deciphering what he thought about this sudden contact, but the fact that he hadn’t pulled away probably meant that he had his own blank cop face on. You vaguely thought ‘what the hell are you doing?’, but the feel of his warm skin seemed to push that concern out of your mind as quickly as it had entered.

You stroked your hand, slowly, against the exposed skin, allowing his warmth and softness to flow through your fingers and down your arm, sending shivers up your spine. You took a step towards him, so there was but a hands width between your bodies, and started to push your hand under the edge of his gown. Your second hand joined a moment later and you closed your eyes as you let them explore his upper torso. You pushed one of them further down so you could run it over his stomach and around to his lower back, but it was stopped by the belt around his waist and you didn’t want to lose contact with him just to undo it.

You startled when you felt fingers at your jawline, but relaxed the minute you realised it was just Sherlock’s hand. He ran his fingertips over your jawline and cheek before finally resting the entirety of his palm against the side of your face so he could push it up and tunnel his fingers through your hair. Your lips parted and your eyebrows furrowed when you felt his nails scrape against your skull. What he did next shocked you even more than his touch had. Your eyes were still closed so you didn’t see him lean in, but you sure as hell felt it when his lips pressed against yours and his tongue snaked through your parted lips.

Your first thought was that he tasted just like Moriarty. In fact, that’s what made you kiss Sherlock back, you even opened your eyes to see if it was in fact Moriarty that you were kissing. But it wasn’t Moriarty. It was Sherlock. And that thought is what made you push the detective away with a gasp.

“I-I can’t … I have to go,” you stammered. And you were out of the door faster than Sherlock could even process what had happened.

****

It had been about a week since the incident with Sherlock. You’d still gone to his place as often as you normally would have, and you’d both fallen back into the old routine, though he stopped asking about Moriarty, and neither of you had been alone in a room together. In fact, you’d both actively avoided it. Not that you minded – well, that was a lie. It bothered you like crazy, but you told yourself that it was better that way. You didn’t want to over complicate your life, and it was a dangerous game trying to juggle both Moriarty and Sherlock. You were better off pretending that you had never kissed Sherlock.

Now here you were, in your own kitchenette wearing nothing but your underwear as you chopped up some vegetables to go in the curry you were making. Moriarty was still in your room getting dressed, you were a little surprised that he hadn’t left yet, but there had been one or two times when he’d stayed at your place overnight because he was too tired to make the trip back to his own place so you didn’t agonise over it too much. Surprisingly, you didn’t feel guilty for keeping what happened with Sherlock from him. You figured that the guilt of being with Moriarty in the first place cancelled out the guilt of being with Sherlock.

The man in question came out of your room then. You expected him to leave without a glance like he normally did, but he surprised you again. He slung his suit jacket over the back of your couch and you noticed that although his white shirt was tucked into his suit pants, the sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows. Watching you like a hawk he came towards the kitchenette. You looked back down at what you were doing and kept your face blank so he couldn’t tell what you were thinking. Truth be told, you had no idea what to think. This was unchartered territory. He never hung around after sex, and if he did he went straight to sleep and left before you got up in the morning.

You forced yourself not to jump when he came up behind you and placed a hand on your waist. He pressed his body against your back suddenly and you smiled when you felt him move your hair to the side so he could ravage your neck with his mouth.

“Ready for another round?” you asked in a husky voice.

You felt him smile against your skin before resting his chin on your shoulder and wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. “No,” he said in that soft, lilting tone of his.

You frowned slightly but didn’t falter in your actions of dicing vegetables. “What are you cooking he asked?”

“Curry. I’m always hungry after we have sex.” You were very careful to say ‘after we’ instead of ‘after I’. He was acting strange at the moment. Too affectionate. Too nice. You felt like it was the calm before the storm, so you made sure that nothing you said or did would trigger his anger. Had you said ‘after I’ then he might have thought that he wasn’t the only one you were sleeping with – which wasn’t the case –; or he might not have liked to be reminded that you’d had lovers before him. You didn’t think he was the jealous type, but he was too unpredictable for you to pin down any sure thing about him. It’s what attracted you to him in the first place, but it also terrified you.

He pressed his face against your neck and hummed in contentment as he drew in the scent of your skin. “Do you always have curry?” he asked.

“No. Sometimes I just have a sandwich or take out. Other times I might have stir-fry. It depends on what I feel like.”

“What’s your favourite?” This question threw you off as well. Moriarty never asked you about things you liked – unless it was in the bedroom. He wasn’t much of a gift giver, though sometimes he did give you pieces of expensive jewellery, but they were so Moriarty-like that you were sure he did it just so Sherlock would see you wearing them. He never took you out to eat, nor did he cook for you, so it was odd that he wanted to know about the kind of food you liked. Despite all this, you answered him anyway.

“Chicken stir-fry with honey mustard sauce.”

He hummed again and said, “I prefer butter chicken.”

You smiled and replied, “That’s my second favourite.”

“I’ll make you some one day.” You stiffened then, because he was becoming weirder and so unlike himself that you were sure there had to be something wrong. He moved his hands up and started rubbing them up and down your upper arms while he pressed a kiss to your temple. It felt nice to have him treat you this way, but it just didn’t seem possible that any of his actions were genuine.

“What are you doing, Moriarty?” you whispered. He didn’t pretend to not know what you were talking about, and you were glad for that, but he didn’t exactly give you a straight answer either.

“I saw you with Sherlock,” he whispered in your ear. How he saw you and Sherlock together was not what immediately entered your mind, it wasn’t even on your list of priorities to find out. Survival was though, and because of that your grip on the knife in your hand changed and tightened.

He chuckled. And just from the sound of it you could tell that he was watching the movements of your hand. “Careful little one,” he said in a singsong voice. “I forgave you for Sherlock, but I don’t think I could forgive you for stabbing me. Even if it was in self defence.”

Your hold relaxed a little at his words, but you certainly weren’t ready to put the knife down completely. He had never lied to you, and he’d said he never would, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t ready to break his promise and start lying to you know.

“You don’t trust me,” he stated.

“Do you blame me?”

He paused for a second before saying, “I don’t like that you don’t trust me.” And it didn’t sound angry or indignant, more like it just sort of dawned on him.

Your brows furrowed in confusion and you turned your head to look at him. He hadn’t moved from where he was, and his arms had gone back around your waist, so he was close enough that his face almost blurred as you looked at him. He pulled his head back slightly, showing that he was probably having the same issue, and his eyes dropped down to watch your lips as you spoke to him.

“It’s odd that you would say that.” You almost said that it was odd he would feel that way, but, if you were being honest, you’d never actually known what he felt.

A flash of anger crossed over his face and his body seemed to tense for a moment, but then he seemed to consider your words, because as quick as the anger had come it was gone again, and he relaxed back into your body. He didn’t say anything though. He just hummed again as he looked back down at the bench you had been working at.

“You’re not usually one to forgive,” you said as you thought back to what he’d said earlier. You didn’t want to look the gift horse in the mouth, but you were, as Moriarty had so often called you, a ‘curious little thing’.

He looked back at you again, and you noticed that he had his blank face back in place. “No, I’m not. But I’m not one for jealousy either. I’m still going to retaliate against Sherlock, he’s not allowed to touch what’s mine.”

You stiffened again, but this time your grip on the knife didn’t. You had a feeling he wouldn’t have been happy if it had. He removed one of his arms from around your waist and lifted it so he could tunnel his fingers through you hair in the exact same way that Sherlock had, he even scraped his nails against your scalp and your eyes closed at the feel of it.

“I’m not going to hurt him,” he said softly as his eyes flicked across your face. “No. That would be too easy. I’m just going to take what matters most to him away. I’m going to take you away from him.”

Your hand tightened around the knife again and you threw your body back against his so you could spin around and attack him. But it was as though he saw it coming. His hands were at your wrists, pinning them to the bench and he forced your body tighter against the bench with his own. You winced as the edge of it dug against the front of your hips.

“Now, now, little one,” he growled in your ear. You expected anger, but he sounded excited rather than angry, as though the thought of fighting you made him almost giddy. His hand snaked down to yours and pressed against a pressure point near your thumb, causing you to yelp and drop the knife in your hand. He took advantage of the opportunity and reached forward to push the knife over the other side of the bench, sending it clattering to the tile below. “I should have started by saying that I’m not going to hurt you. It seems rather tasteless to do that after the magical afternoon we’ve just had together.”

He moved back slightly and turned you to face him. His face looked sincere when he said he wasn’t going to hurt you, so you allowed yourself to relax once again. “I tend to expect the worst when someone says they’re going to take me away,” you said a little breathlessly.

He pressed his lips together and let his eyes trail down to your hips as he searched for bruises, when he didn’t find any he lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to the pressure point that he’d hurt before. “I forget sometimes that my reputation frightens you,” he said. The soft lilt in his voice was back. “I don’t like that either.”

You swallowed and asked the question that was burning through your mind. “If you’re not going to hurt Sherlock, and you’re not going to hurt me, then what exactly are you planning on doing, Moriarty?”

He smiled and his eyes met yours. “I’m going to woo you, of course.” He pressed a harsh kiss to your mouth and then suddenly he was gone, leaving you to stare in shock at the oven across from you as he finally left your apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got more fics at iavengesuperwholock.tumblr.com


	2. Cat and Mouse Game 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You make your decision, fully aware that it could cost you your life.

You were sitting in the back of the taxicab, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you mulled over the interaction you’d had just that morning with Moriarty. You were having trouble trying to believe that he would devote his time to wooing you, but if the flowers that had shown up to the crime scene you’d just been at with Sherlock were anything to go by, than he was pretty serious about it. 

“Y/N!” You jumped and looked at John, he was standing by the cab, bent at the waist so he could look through the cab window at you and Sherlock. Wasn’t he supposed to be in there with you? “Were you even listening to me?”

“Evidently not, John. I don’t even listen to you half the time,” Sherlock drawled in a bored tone as he looked out his own window. The contemptuous tick at the corner of John’s mouth was the only reaction he gave his friend’s comment.

“Sorry, John. I was thinking about something else,” you said.

“I said that I’d catch another cab. I left something back at the scene.”

You nodded and tried not to accuse him of purposely forcing you alone with Sherlock. It was likely that that was what he was doing, but on the off chance that he wasn’t, you didn’t really want to explain why being alone with Sherlock was something that you had actively been avoiding. He moved away from the window and hit the palm of his hand against the roof of the cab to let the driver know that he could leave now. You wound the window back up as he pulled out into the desolate street. 

“That was quite the show back there,” Sherlock said. It took all of two minutes before he’d broken the silence. It was longer than you’d expected. He was analytical and rational, but he was also petty and couldn’t leave well enough alone. He liked to poke the proverbial bear with the proverbial stick, and right now the proverbial stick was in his hand. 

You rolled your eyes towards Sherlock. He was still looking out the window. “Moriarty knows what happened between us.”

He frowned and looked at you. “How?”

You scoffed and looked back out your own window. “You mean to say that in all your glory, you really can’t figure out how a consulting criminal like Moriarty could see through a window?”

He grunted. “I suppose it’s easy enough. Though I doubt he conducted surveillance himself.” 

A few more minutes of silence passed. The cabby crawled to a stop at a set of lights and you couldn’t hold it in anymore. You couldn’t sit there in the silence. Is that why Sherlock had spoken earlier? “We should talk about what happened.”

“What is there to say? I made a deduction. I was wrong. Which is barbaric considering who I am, and I trust that you will never tell anyone, not even John, that I said those words.”

“You and your ego,” you scoffed. You looked back at him when he said nothing. “What did you deduce, exactly?”

He looked at you – no, he studied you. The same way Moriarty did. “That you had some variation of romantic feelings for me.”

“Why did you have to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound so damn clinical.” You were angry, but not at him. Though it was easy to use him as a punching bag. He pissed people off enough that he always assumed it was his fault if someone was mad at him. It was mean of you to use that against him, but you weren’t known for being a nice person. 

“I talk like that all the time. It’s never bothered you before,” Sherlock said. He was still watching you. You were looking out the window so you couldn’t actually see that he was. But you could feel it. You said nothing. “Does it matter how I say it?” he said softly.

You looked at him. Your eyes met and for a moment you both just sat there. He was leaning towards you slightly, you didn’t think he even noticed it. You did. You reached up and stroked your fingers along the lapel of his coat, your eyes following the trail. “We’ve known each other a long time,” you said.

“Nearly ten years. You were my only friend for a long time.” 

“I’m not now.” 

You could feel him searching your face again. You reached up and began playing with a curl that fell a little lower than the rest and brushed against the side of his neck. “No,” he finally said, “you’re not. Does that bother you?” 

You smiled. “No. I like John. He’s good for you.” 

“You don’t think you are?” 

“People say I’m not.”

“What people?”

“Just people.” 

“You mean you?” 

You looked back up into his eyes and let the corners of your mouth curl up in a soft smile. You were both leaning a little further towards each other now. “You never answered my question, you know,” you said.

“I don’t answer a lot of questions.” 

“Do you want me to choose you?” 

“That seems a rather ridiculous question considering the events that transpired a week ago.”

“But you won’t give me a straight answer.” 

“Do I ever?”

“I think you try.” 

Silence fell again. Another stand-off between the two of you. 

“You never answered my question,” he said, finally.

You laughed and dragged him against you by the lapels of his coat, mumbling a ‘shut up’ before pressing your lips against his. You hadn’t even begun to get hot and heavy before Sherlock’s phone rang. You both sighed in irritation but he pulled his phone out anyway and answered it. 

The cab pulled up outside of Sherlock’s apartment. The driver put it in park and then turned to look at you expectantly. You smiled politely and held a finger up so he’d give the two of you a moment. Sherlock got off the phone and said, “John. They need me back at the crime scene. Honestly, I don’t know how they get anything done without me.”

You smiled and opened your door. Before you got out you turned to him and said, “You go. I’ll wait here for you guys to get back.”

“Wait,” he said as he reached forward and took a hold of you hand. You looked back at him. “I … John and I may be home late. You’re tired. You can sleep in my bed.”

You nodded, gave his hand a squeeze, then got out of the cab. You didn’t head inside until he was out of sight.

****

“Did you miss me?” 

Quick as lightening you had your gun drawn and pointed into the dark sitting room of Sherlock’s apartment. You’d only just shut the door as you entered when the voice startled you out of your day dreaming. You leaned over and flicked the light switch that was near the door. 

Moriarty was standing by the chairs. Hands in pocket and signature smirk on his face as he rocked back and forth on his heels. 

“Jesus, Jim,” you breathed as you flicked the safety back on the gun and tucked it into your pants. “I could have killed you.”

“Wouldn’t that have been a sight.” His Irish lilt never failed to send a shiver down your spine. 

“What are you doing here?” It sounded snappy even to you. 

He ignored the tone and said, “Didn’t realise there was a designated place and time to see my girlfriend.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Didn’t realise I was your girlfriend.”

His smile dropped from his face and he looked around the room, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Your tone is becoming irritating.”

Shit. “I got your flowers,” you said, taking a step forward. 

He looked back at you, blank expression in place. Then he smiled and crossed the room towards you. “Did you like them?”

“I’m not a flowers kind of girl. But thank you.” You tried to keep the bad tone out of your voice. Really, you did. 

Moriarty threw his head back and laughed. You tried not to let the confusion you were feeling show on your face. Not that it mattered, he had his back to you now as he walked over to the table and ran his fingers over the books, inspecting them for dust afterwards. 

“I love that you do that,” he said. He didn’t seem to realise that he’d just said ‘love’. He never said that word, especially not when he was talking about someone. 

“Do what?” you asked. 

“Make a gracious ‘thank you’ sound like an insult.” He turned and looked at you. He was grinning, but it wasn’t like any grin you’d ever seen. It was raw. Unapologetic and unbridled. There was no sinister beast lurking beneath it. He was just … happy. 

That was a wrench thrown into your works. Walking up the stairs you’d been sure that you were ready to cut everything off with Moriarty and try to start up with Sherlock. There were less risks to your life with him. And despite his indifferent personality, you weren’t left wondering how he felt about you every time you talked to him. But this new, happy Moriarty, it screwed everything up. You figured he’d send you a bunch of flowers and then get bored and go back to his old ways. But you didn’t expect him to just strip his entire outer shell. It was unsettling and confusing and exactly what you wanted.

“So you’re pretty serious about this whole ‘wooing’ thing, huh?”

He walked back towards you. Both hands were back in his pockets now. “I rarely say anything I don’t mean, little one. I imagine you’d have figured that out by now.”

“Yeah … yeah, I uh, I know that. I expected theatrics. I just didn’t expect … you.” You didn’t expect him to understand what you meant, but his intelligence always surprised you. He didn’t say anything, but you could just tell by the way his face sobered into a soft, almost concerned look, that he knew what you meant. 

“Moriarty, do you … I mean, you wouldn’t … I don’t –”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes. I love you.” 

You mouth actually fell open. “But you don’t … you can’t …”

“I do. And I can.”

You don’t believe him. You can’t. This wasn’t Moriarty. He was sociopathic, and that was on a good day. He was incapable of feeling any sort of complex emotion let alone love. You realised then, that despite all the times you had said that Moriarty and Sherlock were the same, there was one very important difference between them. Sherlock was capable of empathy and sympathy, and all those things that Moriarty wasn’t capable of. But most importantly, Sherlock was capable of love. 

“You need to leave,” you said quietly. Moriarty’s face went back to that expression that you knew all to well, the face that proved you were right in not believing what he had just said. He avoided touching you when he went past and back through the door that you assumed he’d broken through. 

****

Sherlock was late getting in, just like he’d said he would be. He tried not to wake you when he came into his room and saw you on the bed, but if you were being truthful, you’d never gone to sleep anyway. You’d only gotten dressed in one of his shirts that hit you mid-thigh and crawled into his bed so you could surround yourself with his smell, and forget all about the consulting criminal that was done using you as a pawn in his games. At least, you hoped he was done. 

You could practically feel Sherlock’s hesitation as he stood by the bed. Your back was to him so you were pretty sure that he assumed you were asleep. Knowing what he was like, you gave him about ten seconds before he decided to just go out and sleep on the couch, but you didn’t want him too. With that decision in mind you shifted in his bed, kicking the blanket down slightly so he could see that you were wearing one of his shirts. There was only one thing that he could deduce from seeing you in his clothes when you knew that you had a draw of your own clothes that you kept in his apartment. You smiled when you felt him crawl into bed behind you. He let an arm fall over your waist as he spooned his taller frame around yours. 

You grabbed his hand, pulled it to your chest and said, “I love you.”

He didn’t say it back, but that was okay. He was Sherlock, and eventually, after many subtle – and not so subtle – hints from John and Mary, he would get exasperated and shout, at the most inopportune time, “Oh for the love of God, I love the woman, is that what you want to hear?” Because that’s just who Sherlock was. And he was nothing like Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got more fics at iavengesuperwholock.tumblr.com


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